These bells, they ring for me
by Nerdanelparmandil
Summary: For Maeglin Week on Tumblr, a series of small one-shots. - A vile traitor, a manipulative prince, a coward, an ill-begotten child, Maeglin has been described in many dreadful ways. But no matter what the stories say, he has always been a very young Elf thrown in the middle of a game he was doomed to lose before he even started to play.
1. Chapter 1

"Mother, mother, tell me more about the city of Ondog…Ong…" the small child scrunched his little nose, disappointed in his failed attempts.

Aredhel laughed.

" _On – do – lin – dë_ it is called in my language" she said, cupping his plump cheeks. She kissed the tip of his nose and adjusted some strands of hair that always fell on his face. He squirmed under her attention, feigning annoyance.

" _Gondolin_ is how your father would call it, I believe." she murmured. She took his small hands in hers to keep him still. "What do you want to know again? I told you almost everything already!"

He shook his head, sure of himself: "Impossible! Mother, tell me about the houses!"

He loved to hear about them. His imagination could run free, conjuring up the images of the colourful banners; the beautiful weapons glinting in the morning sun and proud warriors with eyes alight like his mother's.

She hummed, pretending to think about what to say. He looked at her expectantly, his dark eyes wide with excitement. Her gentle smile grew into a grin:

"Lómion dear, did I ever tell you of lord Tururkano and the house of the King?"

He squealed in delight.

* * *

The new city had been everything that his mother had told him and nothing at all like he had imagined. Its brightness had hurt his eyes but its beauty was worth all the pain he could endure. He had hoped that his father would never set foot in it – everything he touched he left stained.

Ondolinde was the thing he shared only with his mother. It was their secret, their hidden corner. Their hopes, their dreams they had trusted to the city's gates for safekeeping. His father shouldn't have touched it.

 _Ondolinde_. What were the other names, again? He thought he should well remember them. He had studied them, impressed them in his memory as if one day he would need them to save his life.

Yet now his memory eluded him and he couldn't think of anything else other than that single name. He let it roll over his tongue, he repeated it, breathed it, until it lost its meaning. There was no sound of tumbling water that could reach his ears. In the eerie silence of that cold dawn all he heard were the heavy bronze bells ringing in mourning.

He stared at his hands on his lap. He stared and stared until his eyes burned and filled with tears. He didn't blink. He couldn't, wouldn't. He clenched his jaw and his hands. His _father_ – he grimaced at the word – would pay. He had heard his mother beg the king for mercy and Maeglin would have granted her that last wish. He really would have, had she not died because of _him._ Had _he_ not _killed_ her.

Oh the irony.

Maeglin may have been a lonely and sheltered child, but he was not blind. He knew what his father's character was and how he had treated his mother. He had spent all his life listening to him insulting her kin. _Kinslayer,_ murderers they all were. Usurpers, warmongers, traitors, deceivers. But it hadn't been a lord of the Noldor that had kept her trapped in a dark cage. He had stained her too, his mother who had never looked so happy and thriving as when they were travelling – no, _escaping_ to Gondolin.

He took a deep breath and stood up. He hoped the king would show no amount of mercy. He, Maeglin Lómion Son of Ar-Feiniel, would have none.

* * *

 **For the first prompt: adjusting/coping**

 **Enjoy and let me know what you think!**


	2. Chapter 2

If anyone would have asked Aredhel, Lómion was a quiet child. He fussed little and cried silently. No one in the house would remember one single moment in which he had ever shrieked or raised his small voice in annoyance.

If something bothered him, he would toss and turn in his covers, his little mouth would curl in a pout and occasionally he would chew whatever he could, from the sleeves of his tunic to his mother's fingers. When he grew up a bit and his first teeth began to show, his chewing became biting and his mother would scold him half-heartedly, for she could never get actually angry with him. She didn't need to, in any case.

They had only three servants in their house; more people Eöl couldn't tolerate. One of them was a Sinda, Glavroleth. She took care of the house itself, the kitchen and the cleaning. She had been ecstatic when it had become clear that Aredhel would stay as the mistress of the house. She had doted on the Noldo when she was expecting and she would have gladly raised the little child herself.

Aredhel could not stand her. She pitied her and despised her. The affected reverence and her intrusiveness she had to endure, but no one else but herself, his mother, would raise her child.

"Why is the child so quiet? Why doesn't it cry more?"

Aredhel would never understand if Eöl had been happy to have a son. At times he would show interest and even worry for the child, but his manners betrayed no fondness.

Aredhel rolled her eyes at him: "More? Why would he cry more, Eöl? He's fine"

"It should cry more. It's unnaturally quiet", he said with a frown. She bit her lips, suppressing a smile. When little Lómion was troubled by something, his frown matched his father's.

" _It_ should not. _He_ is perfectly fine, look at him", she bounced the baby on her hip and brushed his little nose. He gave her a toothless smile.

"Mmh. As you say."

His frown deepened when he noticed a glint in her eyes. She grinned at him: "Hold him?"

"What?"

"Oh, please! Hold him!"

"No!"

She hummed undeterred and closed the distance between them, all but dropping the baby in his lap: "Just for a little while. There, it's not difficult, isn't it? Now, now don't fuss, little one, be a good boy for you _ada_ , mh?"

Eöl watched horrified as Aredhel turned away, her light feet carrying her quickly out of the room.

"Come, Himon", she called, "We had to check that lame horse, didn't we?"

The servant looked from the door to the face of his lord, unsure.

"Himon!" her voice called again.

Eöl jerked his chin in her voice's direction: "Go help the lady!"

"Yes, my lord"

"And Himon, make sure that she doesn't...come up with strange ideas, understood?"

"As always, my lord"

The servant bowed and disappeared behind Aredhel, leaving Eöl alone with the baby.

"Now, what to do with you?" he grumbled.

The child looked up at him with curiosity; his large dark eyes seemed to study his every expression. Then the child frowned.

"What now? Don't tell me that you'll start crying _now_?"

But the child kept silent. Eöl tilted his head, wondering if he should move or speak to _it_.

The child tilted his head and let out a small playful sound.

Eöl jerked as if slapped. He narrowed his eyes and slowly, very slowly he stuck his tongue out. The child's little pink tongue popped out.

Eöl quickly looked around, making sure that no one else could see them.

"Alright little bullfinch. Let's see what you can do"

* * *

"Young master! What are you doing with those crumbs? You will scatter them everywhere! No, don't run! Oh, and who will then clean this mess? Always me, poor Glavroleth…"

Her voice faded as Lómion ran out, his small bundle of crumbs held carefully in his hands. He reached the little pond in the garden behind the house.

He sat down on his rock near the water and opened the handkerchief. He had enough crumbles to feed all the fishes in the pond, he reasoned, and something else could be spared also for the little birds.

His tongue poked out in concentration as he began to toss the crumbles where the fishes were. Soon enough he saw them. Yellow and orange, their translucent scales sparkled in the water as their heads popped up. He watched fascinated how they sloshed about, their fins fluttering like leaves.

He felt something poking his hand and he had to tear his gaze from the fishes. A small chaffinch tilted his head, looking curiously at Lómion.

"Hello, little friend. Are you hungry?"

The bird poked his fingers again and Lómion opened the handkerchief.

"Look, I have some bread for you!"

One after another, several birds joined them, skipping around the Elf until all the crumbles disappeared.

When he returned inside, some hours later, it seemed that nobody was there. Glavorleth was probably still in the kitchen busy with her stew. Nardhon and Himon, the other two servants, were away since the morning, buying and trading for goods in the settlements outside Nan-Elmoth.

He tiptoed in front of his father's chamber, careful not to make a sound. Perhaps his mother was in her room, waiting for him to come to listen to one of her tales.

He gulped when he say the door slightly ajar, orange light illuminating the corridor. Muffled voices reached him and Lómion recognised his parents.

"He needs a name. He's grown already!"

He heard his father sigh heavily. "We have talked about this. Not yet. He's still a child, too small."

"You can't call him 'son' all of his life!"

"That is what he is. My son. My rules"

"He's my son too, Eöl, and I refuse to leave him nameless"

Silence. Then: "You have already named him, haven't you?"

Eöl's voice had a dangerous edge. Lómion could well imagine him, shoulders hunched, eyes narrowed as he regarded his mother with veiled contempt.

"So what if I did" – ah, now his mother would have her chin tilted up, her eyes glinting with pride while she stood in all her height.

"In your damned language, that is!" he spat.

She said nothing. Lómion heard heavy steps and his father's ragged breath: "You don't deny it?"

"No"

His father growled. Something fell on the carpeted floor with a _thud_.

"Oh please, you're ridiculous", his mother sounded exasperated.

Something else fell with another _thud._ Lómion was curious; silently, he drew nearer to the door and looked.

His parents were face to face and the little elf froze. His father was _scary_.

He had his hands around his mother's arms and was shaking her: "What did you call him? Are you teaching him that language? Answer me!"

Several objects were on the ground, books, candlesticks and papers.

"You are hurting me, Eöl. Release me!"

His mother didn't seem to be scared.

"Answer me!" he shouted.

Lómion gasped audibly. His mother struggled and managed to free herself. She turned, a worried look on her face. His father's eyes snapped up on him and widened: "Son…"

Lómion ran.

* * *

 **For the second prompt: childhood/ life in Nan-Elmoth**

 **Enjoy and let me know what you think of it!**


	3. Chapter 3

In his mind was always present the day his father named him. _Maeglin_ was the name, _sharp-glance_.

When he was still a child, his mother told him that with his large dark eyes he would one day see right into Aule's own mind and he would learn every little secret.

All his questions would be answered and he would surpass his father in his skills. Perhaps he would even rival _Fëanaro_ , that strange and looming figure of which his mother spoke in a hushed voice, her eyes wary and never, never when father was at home.

He had heard even the Dwarves speak of that Elf with deference and admiration – however much the Dwarves could have for an Elf. But still, in his young mind his greater idol was his own father. No matter what happened over the years, Maeglin the craftsman always held a reluctant respect for him. What hurt more than anything, was the fear to never match his skills.

It didn't matter that in Gondolin the king himself was always pleased with his works. It didn't really matter that he held all the court's admiration. His father had taught him, had shared his secrets with him, had brought with him among the Dwarves so that he could learn. And the first thing Maeglin had done had been stealing his sword and running away.

When his father too had found his doom, Maeglin had thought that he wouldn't set foot in a workshop anymore. He didn't need to in any case, he was the nephew of the king, a prince of the Noldor; he would never need anything. But the first years in the city were dedicated to his education – he hadn't been educated as a prince in Nan-Elmoth – and were filled with much studying and less actual _doing_. And perhaps he had taken it from his mother, Maeglin had to _do_ something.

Taking the request to the king had been his first step and by far, one of his most frightening experiences. He didn't know that man, at all. His mother's descriptions of her brother perhaps belonged to another time, another place. The man Maeglin had met was a stern, serious king, prone to command more than to laugh.

But his mother hadn't been wrong.

"Lómion, my dear"

His voice had been warm when he had seen Maeglin approaching him in his private study.

"My king" had said Maeglin, stiff and formal. A shield for his insecurity.

"None of that", Turgon had waved a hand, "I am your uncle, am I not?"

"Uncle, then"

The king had smiled: "What is it?"

"Uncle, I have a request", he had hesitated.

"Speak, nephew. Anything that is in my power I will gladly grant you. Do not fear to speak freely with me."

Maeglin had swallowed. He had noticed then, for the first time perhaps, how much Turgon truly resembled his sister. "I… I want to be useful" he had managed to say, sounding young even to his own ears.

Turgon had both frowned and smiled reassuringly. "Yes?"

"I am skilled in the works of hand. I know how to craft objects, from common tools to jewels. I am also quite versed in mining and in the art of extracting gems."

"And you want to put your abilities to use, I imagine. You are right, of course."

"I know that you have already given me a small place in your court and for that I am grateful, uncle, I don't want you to think I am not…"

Turgon had laughed: "Don't worry! It is not an unreasonable request, nephew."

"Truly?"

"Yes, truly. I will see what I can do"

And so Maeglin had begun to frequent the workshops in Gondolin and the mines. His skills were noticed and under the tutelage of several masters, he learned much and in turn could share his knowledge. Yet, he kept for himself most of the techniques he had learnt from his father and the Dwarves. Over a few years he became a recognised master of his art and his following grew.

He loved the rhythm, the fatigue, and the labour. The joy he felt every time he would see the results of his hard work was unparalleled. Nothing, nothing in his life could compare to that. He loved to shape and bend things according to his will. In time, while working also in the court of the king, he learned what in his heart he called _a universal truth_ : crafting was not much different than dealing with people.

Yet there were people he could not understand, to whom he could not get close to.

She was a golden vein in a dull grey stone; pure and bright, like the morning sun over the white marble of the city. She was wise and sharp like an owl and Maeglin had began crafting jewels for her. He couldn't speak properly when in her presence, the depth of her gaze unsettling, _knowing_ , what precisely he could not tell. So he resorted to the easiest way he had to approach her.

The bells of the city were ringing in celebration. It was the day in which the Noldor remembered the rising of Rána - the moon, as they liked to call him - and their arrival in Beleriand after the hardship of the Helcaraxë. On a day like this, Maeglin had the perfect opportunity to approach the princess with a gift. Surely she would not object.

She was radiant, dressed in pale pink, with fresh blossoms pinned in her hair. Maeglin swallowed, his tongue dry and heavy. He looked at the parchment in his hands and took one step after the other, drawing closer to her.

He didn't know how it happened, the moments blurred in a flurry of gold and gentle laughter. One moment he was bowing, the next he was clasping the necklace he made on her neck. His fingers brushed her delicate skin and he shivered and fumbled.

She turned and looked at him, thanking him with a kiss on his cheek. Perhaps his fingers had lingered too long on her hands; perhaps his gaze betrayed his inner turmoil. Her smile became a bit too polite and less unguarded, something flashed in her eyes but Maeglin couldn't be sure, for in an instant it was gone.

She liked the necklace very much, she said. Soon he would outshine all the other artisans in the city.

He revelled in her admiration. He hoped that it would for but one moment ease his heart.

* * *

 **For the third prompt: mining/creativity**

 **The feast mentioned is my own invention.**

 **As always, enjoy and let me know what you think! :D**


	4. Chapter 4

Maeglin knew his father wasn't at home. He had left some days before for one of his journeys to one of the realms of the Dwarves – the young Elf couldn't remember its name. All he knew was that his father would be away.

And so he put his plan into action.

Nardhon was away with Eol, while Himon and Glavroleth remained at home. He had studied their habits and their movements for days by now. He knew when they would be occupied, whether in the kitchen or in the stables or even in the garden. The only problem would have been his mother. She always knew where he was, what he was doing. More often that not she would let him play or be on his own when he didn't want to be found.

So Maeglin waited for the late afternoon, when his mother too was busy. She had decided to take care of the horses, while Glavorleth cooked and Himon was repairing some objects.

He stayed in the shadows of the house and slipped undetected in his father's quarters. The first room was more akin to a study, with a writing desk near the window, high shelves full of books, and two sofas facing each other in its centre. On the right wall a second door led to the sleeping chamber itself.

Maeglin bit his lips unsure. Would _it_ be here or in his bedroom?

He decided to check the bedroom first, hoping that the door wasn't locked. His father had taught him how to pick at locked doors anyway. After some workings, he managed to open the door and slipped inside.

His heart was pounding in his ears, but he remained focussed. Nobody would look for him for another hour at least. He had all the time to find _it_. He inspected the whole room. He checked the in the closet, under the closet and under the bed. He even tried to look under the pillows, but with no luck.

Almost desperate, his eyes finally fell on a chest, hidden in the shadows. He examined it – it was beautifully decorated with a leaves-pattern that he recognized. The Sindar of Doriath used it.

With a deep breath he opened the lid.

And found inside only sheets and blankets. He pursed his lips, disappointed. He was so sure _it_ would be there.

Better be safe than sorry. He decided that taking a closer look between those blankets wouldn't hurt.

He plunged his hands inside, he felt under the layers of fabric and at some point in his pursuit he touched something _else._

 _There it is! It must be it._

He took hold of the object and took it out with some difficulty.

 _Yes, finally!_

It was heavy but not as much as he expected. But it was beautiful, dangerously so. All black, it nonetheless glinted in the faint light.

Well, its hilt glinted, for a black scabbard covered the blade. He didn't dare to unsheathe it.

But he was finally holding it. His father's sword. He had it in his hands and he almost couldn't believe his own eyes.

It was the most perfect thing he had ever seen. Even his poorly experienced eyes could appreciate the finesse of the details, the worth of the gems that adorned the hilt, the precision of the carvings.

His hands tightened on the hilt. He was still too young, his hands were too small, he could well see that.

But he was euphoric. He was holding a sword! And not just _any_ sword, but a masterpiece.

He closed his eyes, feeling the leather bindings of the hilt under his skin. He imagined to be… Who could he be?

 _Yes, I know! I'm the King. But which king?_

He tried hard to remember the tales of his mother and his lessons.

 _Thingol wouldn't do. He's a great king but… Perhaps mother's father? Oh no, I know! I will be her brother, what was his name? The Valiant, that of the songs, who braved the land of the enemy! Yes, Fin… Fin – can? Fincano…Aha! Fin –de –ca – no, Findecano, yes, that's him!_

He grinned, elated.

He imagined being that great warrior, riding a swift horse on the plains, the wind in his hair and a famous sword in his hand. He imagined slaying orcs and other monsters and being acclaimed by everyone. Bards would sing of his feats in the taverns, poets would compose songs about him, his name would be known in all Beleriand.

He would protect people and defend the weak against any wrongdoing. He would be well beloved and he would be gracious and generous with all.

A true knight, a hero.

* * *

 **Here it is, for the fourth prompt happy memories/happy moments... a day later!**

 **Enjoy! :D**


	5. Chapter 5

They called it _Battle of the Sudden Flame_ , but nothing of it had been sudden, except perhaps its violence. Echoes of it had reached the hidden city of Gondolin and with the heartbreak for the losses came also the doubt.

"How can we stay so silent? Hidden? While our kin out there is dying for us, in our place!"

"And how do you propose to help them, Lord of the Fountain? Would you send men in aid, so that the city would be then exposed?"

"Lord Maeglin, with all due respect, you are young and inexperienced in matters of war. We can devise a way to send…"

" _With all due respect_ , Lord Ecthelion, don't play that card with me. It won't work. Now, our strength lies in our secrecy. What purpose would a hidden city have, if not that of being built for endurance? Time is of essence. We cannot waste our opportunity to resist for as long as we can against the enemy. We cannot win with only honour and valiant deeds."

"And what will we defend, when the enemy will have conquered all kingdoms of the Eldar and enslaved us?" asked Lord Duilin.

"Our purpose is to resist as long as we can, hidden", said the king. The whole room quieted.

"The enemy will look for us, he will worry, he will search and waste efforts in order to find us. His attention will be diverted; we already are a thorn in his side." – The king paused and looked all the lords of the council in their eyes.

"I will be honest with you, my lords. This might be the only time you hear me say it. My… cousin was right. Many years ago, soon after my beloved brother freed him from his torments, the eldest Son of Fëanor had said: 'We will never win against our enemy'. Back then I refused to believe him. 'But', he had continued, 'our strength lies not in victory. It lies in our resistance'. Now, we can interpret 'resistance' in many ways and my cousin – and my brother, for that matter – prefers the show of strength. Valiant deeds, as you called them, Lord of the Mole. Which doesn't rule out the shrewdness. You see, the founding of Gondolin was part of a bigger plan, a bigger tale. And I have faith in that plan. What I asked you all those years ago, as my followers, was to believe in that plan with me. I realise that many of you may not look West with hope. But believe in _me,_ as your guide. Do you trust me as your king?"

All the lords voiced their consensus, bowing their heads and placing their right hand on their hearth.

"Good. The right time for us to go to war will come. This doesn't mean that I won't send whatever aid I can without being discovered. I still owe my allegiance to my father, the High King. Now, tell me, what news from the war?"

For almost a year the debates in the Council followed a similar path. News from the East of Beleriand and from Dorthonion reported of the defeat of the Sons of Feanor and of the deaths of Angrod and Aegnor. Finrod was fleeing and it was clear that Morgoth would have won that war. Turgon yet held his ground and Gondolin didn't fight.

* * *

One day the great Lord of the Eagles came to Gondolin, carrying a ruined body.

Many saw the arrival of Thorondor and wondered. The great Eagle landed in sight of the city, upon one peak of the Echoriath and stayed there. Turgon took with him a party – Maeglin, the Lords Penlod and Ecthelion accompanied him – and rode out.

It took Maeglin a while to realise that he was looking at who once had been his childhood hero and his own grandfather. But did the word have a meaning? He had never met him, never talked to him. He wasn't even sure that Fingolfin knew to have a grandson.

For his part, Turgon remained composed. He listened to the tale of Thorondor and thanked him. He ordered for the body to be taken to the city. He would personally see to its cleaning and dressing. He would give his father a proper burial.

The news spread to the city like wildfire but no one dared to sing of the great duel. The people mourned in silence and only the bells sounded as the body was carried through the streets – thankfully covered.

Three days later a _cairn_ was built in the place where Thorondor had first landed.

Maeglin was reading in his chamber when a servant hurriedly told him that the king was looking for him.

It wasn't unusual to be summoned in such a way, but not at such a late hour.

He found the king – his _uncle_ , he had to remind himself – in his private quarters. His daughter Idril was with him and Maeglin hovered at the door, taking in the scene in front of him.

Turgon was seated at his desk, a ragged piece of cloth held tightly in his hands. Idril was kneeled to his side, caressing her father's hands and speaking softly, though Maeglin couldn't hear her words.

She sighed and got up. "Have faith, father. Be strong" she whispered, kissing his temple.

She turned and saw Maeglin. They regarded each other for a moment until both stepped forward.

Maeglin reached out and took her hands in his: "I'm sorry for your loss, princess."

"It is your loss too, cousin." She told him quietly. He smiled and nodded. After a moment of hesitation he hugged her. She didn't resist. She buried her face in his chest and a sob escaped from her lips.

"I'm sorry." She wriggled out of the embrace and Maeglin let her. "I should go, cousin. Good night", her eyes were full of tears, but none was shed.

"Good night, princess"

She closed the door behind her as she left. Maeglin drew near to his uncle, still seated at his desk.

"Uncle?"

Turgon raised his head to look at his nephew. He then looked at the door, where Idril had disappeared a moment before. "She tells me to have hope", he smiled and shook his head.

"She's strong"

"That she is. I have hope because of her", he looked at Maeglin again, "And of you, nephew"

"Me?"

The king spread out the cloth on the desk. "Do you recognize this?"

"It's… King Fingolfin's symbol"

Turgon looked away, his gaze unfocused. "Yes, his symbol."

Silence. Maeglin didn't know what to do, what to say. He was at loss, never having comforted any one. "I'm sorry I never met him", he said finally.

The king sighed. "He would have loved you. He loved all his children and grandchildren. He loved us so much…", his words faded.

Maeglin kneeled beside him and put a tentative hand to his shoulder. Something in his uncle seemed to crumble. He turned to Maeglin; with a hand he cupped his nephew's cheek.

"I'm so sorry, my boy. I'm so deeply sorry", he said.

"What for, uncle?"

Turgon was openly crying now and it terrified Maeglin.

"Don't…don't cry, uncle, please"

"Oh, my sweet child. You look so much like your mother, do you know that? But I let her down, in the end…" he closed his eyes, perhaps to stop the tears.

Maeglin frowned and shook his head: "No, that is not true"

"I let them down too, my father, my brothers. What would they have thought of me, vanishing without a word?" he whispered.

"Uncle, please"

"Did I make the wrong choice, Maeglin? Did I fail?"

Not knowing what else to do, Maeglin hugged his uncle. _Please, stop talking. I don't know how to comfort you. I don't know how to deal with this kind of pain. And if you break, how can I ever go on? I need you strong uncle, please. I need you here._

"Shh, uncle. It's all right. You didn't fail", he murmured, his face buried in Turgon's shoulder. He tightened his hold, trying not to cry.

* * *

For the fifth prompt relationship/attachment

Happy New Year to every one of you! :D

Now, I wanted to post this here earlier but I had some problems with this site. In any case, enjoy!

(PS: the last two chapters should be posted soon. I'm slightly late, sorry)


	6. Chapter 6

He had thought he could outsmart them. They were but orcs, brainless slaves. He would run away as soon as they turned their backs.

Those brainless orcs had more wits than Maeglin imagined. Their eyes were always upon him, as well as their blades. They had bound his hands and had dragged him around. They had prodded him, cut him, whipped him. They had shoved their rotten food down his throat, pulled at his hair, took away his weapons.

He feared what they could do next. He was exhausted and ashamed.

The humiliation stung, deeper than any wound.

Here he was, a prince of the Noldor, the heir of a king, the hero of the battlefield. Incapable of dealing with a group of mere orcs, treated worse than a slave. His threats were empty and brought only more pain. Nothing he said seemed to be heard or understood.

When he heard them debate – kill him here or taking him as a prisoner to their Master – he took his chance. He offered them the only valuable thing he had.

He vowed to himself, he would never be humiliated again.

* * *

Morgoth never touched him. He played with his mind. He used Maeglin's own power against him: words. Convincing, promising. Poisoning.

He told him about his own family. He told him about the Valar, the Noldor, the Sindar, his father, his mother. He spoke of their crimes and their vices, their lies and their betrayals. The hate and the bloodlust.

Where was the truth, where the lie? Maeglin could not see it.

* * *

 _Did your dear mother tell you all about Valinor?_

"Yes"

 _Did she tell you that one day you would see it?_

"Yes"

 _Did she also tell you that she was Doomed?_

"…No"

 _She was exiled._

"I know"

 _Exiled from Valinor. Doomed to die here. And you know who exiled her? Who condemned her?_

"The Valar?"

 _Yes. Them. Would you trust them?_

"You're a Vala too."

 _And do you trust me?_

"No"

 _So why should you trust them? Your enemy is of their kind. And for all their power, did they answer all your pleas for help? Did they prevent ruin and death?_

Maeglin didn't know what else to say.

* * *

Would you like your name to figure in songs? To be sung in the halls of men and elves, forever? Celebrated in glory and reverence? Would you like people to turn and admire you as you walk in your city of marble? Would you like them to stutter while talking to you, to obey to your every word, to praise you, to love you as their lord, as their true king?

"I already have this."

Do you? Do all of your people love you? Does your princess love you? Do you command her heart? "No. I don't." And do you want it?

"You offer me this…how? Why?"

I created Arda, I have power over everything, its men, its kingdoms and their fate. I can make you a king or a slave. But I am also generous. I need someone like you, with your mind, your abilities. I will reward you with glory and power. You offer me your knowledge. Does it seem a fair exchange to you?

"It does."

Remember well, Maeglin Lómion. Elves are bound to Arda and I am its Master. And if you doubt it, look around you.

Maeglin looked.

 _See those creatures? Orcs, you say. Yes they are orcs, now. Ever wondered were they come from?_

"You…created them?"

'Created'. _Yes, you can say I created them. As I did for other creatures. Dragons, Worms. I created wonders no one had ever seen, I did things no one dared to imagine. And more importantly, they all answer to me. I need but to raise a hand and they will do my bidding. And I gave this power to my lieutenants. See, you can be a lieutenant too. You will have legions that will answer to your hand. Or you can be one of those orcs._

"But I am an Elf"

 _What is an orc, if not an Elf twisted, tortured, deprived of his will? Think carefully about what I offer you, Maeglin son of…Ar Feiniel._

Maeglin shivered.

The Vala pinned him with his gaze. He felt as if he was looking into a dark abyss – nothingness brought into reality. He wanted to flee but he couldn't. He wanted to scream but he stayed silent.

Slowly something changed inside him. Some small glimmer of hope withered and died in those fire-lit dungeons.

"I accept your offer…Master"

I am glad. You will have your city and your princess, do not fear. And do not fail me. You made the right choice, prince."

* * *

He waited for years. He worked in the dark, nobody suspecting him. He smiled and spun his web of lies. It became easier with time, although all his doubts plagued him when he looked at his uncle – no, his king.

 _No, I won't betray myself. I made a choice._

He wasn't sure where all that hate had come from. He knew for certain that she should have never married that atan. She did it to spite him, he knew. His love he had given her freely. He would have revered her, with all his soul. He would have given her everything he could – a kingdom worthy of the Queen she would be.

He would have reached for the stars, plucked them out of their velvet nest and gifted to her. But she had lied to him, all those years. He had hoped, hoped so strongly. She had kept her smile, her gentleness, but her eyes and her heart were cold for him.

A small part of him knew that it wasn't her fault. He remembered Hurin's words that day in battle. It was already written, how the story should have ended. There was nothing he could do to change the course of things.

But he had crushed that small, treacherous part of himself and tried to change fate in any case.

* * *

One night he dreamt. He was struggling with somebody at the edge of a cliff. Maeglin couldn't see. It was a moonless night. Only the stars shined, distant, cold. The fight was raw, they were using teeth, nails; blood rendered their holds slippery. He could hear his own laboured breathing, the fresh air burning in his aching lungs. They were both growling like beasts. They were feral, they were desperate. And then…

Then they both slipped and fell but they didn't stop their fight. They hit the ground. The cutting edge of the rocks hit them, opened their skin, broke their bones. But Maeglin wasn't dead as he should have been. He was awake, though he could feel his fractured body aching. He crawled towards the other body – his opponent had died in the fall. He noted with detachment that it was already decaying, rotting.

But he recognised him now. Eöl's face was contorted in something between a grin and a grimace. Those accusing dark eyes – so similar to Maeglin's – were staring up at him.

 _You shouldn't have your eyes anymore_ , thought Maeglin.

"I hate you too, old man", he said.

The body of course couldn't answer him. He sighed and nestled himself beside Eöl's body. He felt his own warm blood spilling and soaking the earth beneath him. He closed his eyes and drifted.

Maeglin woke up with a start, panting and sweaty. His hands were as cold as ice. A dreadful certainty settled in his guts. So that will be my end. Fitting. With a sigh he turned and tried to resume his sleep.

* * *

The bells of the city rang in alarm. When the fire finally came and Gondolin started to burn, he should have rejoiced. But the acrid smoke filled his lungs and the ashes tasted bitter in his mouth. His victory would bring him nothing.

He must have been mad, for in that moment, when the attack began, he prayed. He prayed to gods he never new, distant figures of tales told long ago in a candlelit room, when he was safe in the arms of his mother. He prayed that his mother would forgive him, one day.

He prayed that those gods would tell his uncle that he was sorry. But no matter how much he desired it, prayers were no use now. He had to play his part. So he drew out his sword and honoured his bargain.

He had to be brave – braver than any hero had ever been. There would be no songs of glory for him, no reward.

* * *

He had been a fool. He should have imagined it, really. He had been used as a pawn in a game as old as the world – no, older. And he had been so blind.

Morgoth's plan had been bigger than him, of course. He had played into fate's hands. Nothing had changed and the dark old tale had come to an end. He lost consciousness while falling. He didn't mind.

At least the pain will finally go away.

The last thing he heard was his erratic heartbeat.

The last thing he saw was his hands, red, glinting in the morning light.

* * *

 **For the sixth prompt - torture/death**

 **This has been the most difficult piece to write and I'm still not sure if I'm satisfied with it - but I post it now, otherwise I will never do it. And also, it has been the most difficult chapter to upload here. I've had problems with this site and I think that this chapter has some spacing problems :/**

 **I would suggest you - if you like the band - to listen to "Mordred's Song" and "Thorn" by Blind Guardian. Also "If I had a Heart" and "Keep the Streets Empty" by Fever Ray. I mean, these are the songs that helped me get in the right mood.**

 **Enjoy :D**


	7. Chapter 7

His spirit hovered the place of his fall. He was anchored there, in Gondolin.

A ruined city, ashes floating in the wind, mixed with the white snow. A king without a crown, a ghost city to rule by himself. Alone. Now he had what Morgoth promised him. Part of it at least. He hated it.

He heard a voice, soft and low. It was everywhere, in the stones, in the earth, in the water. It echoed in the empty halls. Everyday he heard it. It pulled at him. He felt his bond weaken. He wanted to refuse. He was stubborn, yes. But he was immensely tired of the cold, the solitude. He longed for a corporeal body, though he couldn't admit it to himself. Denying his desire seemed to lessen the pain.

If only!

He yearned for the touch of snow on skin, for the taste of berries, for the warmth of an embrace. Anything. Only that uncanny voice kept him company, but it was incorporeal too, he _understood_ it in his mind, more than hear it. It didn't reach his (non-existent) ears.

* * *

 _Leave me here. Leave me alone. Leave._ Not even screaming could hurt his throat.

"No. I'm waiting for you."

 _Why?_

"Your place is here."

 _No._

"Don't you want to heal? To feel again? To live, breathe, dream?"

 _There's nothing for me there._

"There's hope. Love. Forgiveness."

 _I don't deserve those._

"No one has enough knowledge to say that. Perhaps you don't deserve them, perhaps you do. I give you only the choice."

 _Is it now or never?_

"No. My doors are always open. Death is my domain, child of Eru. Mine and His alone. Melkor has no power here."

And Maeglin finally believed it. Nothing chained him to Beleriand anymore. Morgoth was vanquished.

When Beleriand sank, Maeglin's spirit fled to Mandos.

In the Halls he learned how to defeat his bonds. He was free, he was healing. It took time. Ages.

His father wasn't there. He had chosen differently. He never saw his mother.

* * *

Eventually he saw the light of Valinor. And he wept, for it was beautiful and bright.

Tirion was as white as Gondolin, only sweeter – its light didn't hurt his eyes. He didn't walk its streets though. Not yet. Neither him, nor its inhabitants were ready to meet.

The forests were much like how his childhood home had been. Strange spells filled the air, the vegetation was thick and luscious but softer. There was no lurking malevolence, no decay, no darkness.

* * *

In Aman he saw the Great Sea for the first time.

A strange Elda accompanied him in his travel. He introduced himself only as his mother's cousin, but Lómion barely remembered the detail.

Lómion – for now he consciously chose his mother name – had startled at first. The unexpected presence was _golden_ , almost too much. Incorruptible.

He had expected sternness and reprimand. And the Elda might have been stern – Lómion could perceive a boundless strength beneath the calm exterior.

 _Here is a Lord and King_ , he thought, though no garment or manner betrayed the stranger's status. No, it was something intangible, in his very fëa.

The Elda's gaze was soft, softer than anything he had ever seen. Looking into his eyes, Lómion felt only understanding and _love_ and, he realised, those were the sources of the stranger's strength.

* * *

He was a pleasant companion. He seemed to perceive when Lómion preferred silence or conversation. He explained to him many of the wonders they saw along the road and Lómion marvelled at his knowledge. His laugh was ready and his manners humble.

He sang often – senseless things, the flight of a butterfly or of birds, the run of a horse and the tumbling of water on stone. At night he would sing to the stars, always honouring Varda Elentari. Lómion listened intently to his voice, drinking in his grace and beauty.

"You don't like to sing, my friend?" the Elda asked him one morning.

"Why do you say that?"

The stranger smiled: "Why, I never hear you sing!"

It was such an innocent question, the reasoning like that of a child. Lómion should have questioned the Elda's intelligence but instead he found himself smiling in return. He thought about the question for a while, then said: "I don't know many songs and those I know are not suited for a place like this"

"Mmh", the Elda seemed to mull what Lómion said, "I have a solution to that! I can teach you some songs, if you want!"

"I…thank you. You are kind", he hesitated, "friend?"

The Elda smiled brightly and the world seemed a warmer place.

* * *

One day the stranger sang a different song. The water was not the sweet and lively entity of the brooks anymore. There were no rushing leaves and no smell of flowers. Lómion heard a slow, heavy roar – he imagined something proud and great. If the creeks were like small birds, this _entity_ was like an eagle suspended in the sky.

The breeze carried an unknown scent, both sweet and sharp. And the air was ever tense, as if a hidden force might suddenly disrupt the apparent calm.

Lómion opened his eyes when the new song ended and looked at his companion as a child would look at his mother in puzzlement. The Elda laughed – a merry laugh that infected Lómion too.

"We shall see the Great See soon", was all the stranger said.

His songs turned then all to the sea. They were happy tunes but Lómion perceived some kind of undercurrent sadness. And truth be told, the eyes of the Elda revealed his mood all too clearly. _He yearns for something gone. But what might that be?_

* * *

At last, they reached it. The sky was blue and the sand was warm under their feet. On the horizon there were enormous white clouds. The rays of the sun shone through them, creating a glimmering play on the surface of the water.

Lómion's eyes widened so much they almost hurt. The Sea was _immense_ and it _moved_ as if it were a single body.

"Is it alive?" he asked without thinking.

"Yes, it is." was the surprising answer.

"How?"

The Elda smiled. "Ossë likes to play with the winds of Manwë. And Ulmo is never idle."

Lómion frowned and protested: "But it's _water_!"

"Yes"

"An impressive amount of water!"

"Indeed."

"So why does it move?"

"Why shouldn't it?" – the Elda seems amused.

Lómion kept silent and stared at the sea. A gentle touch on his elbow shook him from his thoughts.

"Come! Let us get near the water! Do you know how to swim?"

"Swim? Yes. But is it safe to swim there?"

"That depends on how far you go. But I believe it is better only to dip our feet in the water for the first time, isn't it?"

"…yes, that is better!"

The water was strange. Lómion felt it pulling and pushing at his feet. Now it was a caress, now a gentle slap. It also smelled, for lack of better words. His skin tingled; he dipped a finger in the water and then tasted it. "It's bitter and salty!" he grimaced.

"It is! It doesn't make for a refreshing drink", the Elda seemed to pout at the thought.

Lómion laughed, long and happily for the first time since his return: "Of course not!"

He looked around, took some steps forward, feeling the sand almost sticky under his feet.

He had much to do to rebuild a life here. But he would not think of that, not this day.

He let go of his thoughts, of his fears. In that moment he was happy to simply be, to feel, to breathe.

* * *

 **When I started with the first chapter I thought it would turn out to be a collection of disconnected episodes. And they are, more or less. Only, I discovered that Maeglin is a wonderful character to play with and I can't abandon him like this, without giving him some sort of closure.**

 **I want to thank all those who have commented, thank you so much for you insight!**

 **Enjoy! :D**


	8. Chapter 8 - Epilogue

A/N: Two years later and here I am, finally with an epilogue of sorts. I actually wrote this two years ago, but I wasn't really satisfied with it and this chapter has been sitting in my pc during all this time. Now I feel slightly more comfortable with it and I hope - if there is someone still reading after my prolonged silence - that it will be an enjoyable reading, at least! :)

* * *

Later they dried their feet and sat in quiet contemplation on a dune of sand and weeds.

The stranger looked at him and smiled: "So, do you like the Sea?"

Lómion looked around, taking in the landscape.

"It is beautiful. Strange", he paused. "No, not strange. It is unlike anything I've seen", he said after a while. "Where… where does it end?"

"End?" the Elda frowned "It does not end as does a lake, I suppose."

"You…don't actually know?"

The Elda sighed and looked at the horizon. He seemed to be searching for something.

"A long time ago" he gestured to the sea "to the other side laid the lands of Endórë and of the rest of Arda. But then, the lands of Valinor were removed from Arda."

Lómion gulped. "How? And when? And where _are_ we now, if not in Arda?"

"So many questions. I do not know, my friend, not for certain."

"But you have a theory?"

"Perhaps."

It was clear that the Elda did not want to discuss it with Lómion. He felt betrayed but he suppressed the feeling. He still did not know the stranger's name. Surely there were things they both wouldn't want to share.

Lómion saw something then, further south on the shore. He pointed it at his companion. "What is that?"

Again, yearning was in the eyes of the Elda.

"Ah, that is Alqualondë"

"Alqua…" Lómion's eyes widened, "Oh. It seems… a nice place."

"It is. A beautiful city."

Lómion suspected that his companion had been in the city before and not as a mere visitor. He had the same look his uncle Turgon had had when he talked about his Tirion upon Túna and the light of the two Trees. His mother had had that look too.

 _He is one of the Exiled!_

He must be. What did he say, the first day they travelled?

" _You do not know me, but I know your mother well. She is my cousin"_

Cousin! If only he remembered the whole family tree!

He studied the Elda. If he stopped at the colour of his hair, he might have been kin to one like lord Glorfindel – _A Vanya?_ – But he had seen his hair glinting as silver in the moonlight during their travel. At night, he could have been mistaken for a Sinda, kin of Thingol. The hair of Glorfindel had never had a silvery hue.

That proud chin Lómion knew very well. He had seen it raised in defiance when his mother had argued, he had seen it raised in sternness when his uncle had to make a decision as a king. Lómion knew he too had inherited it. He and the stranger seemed to have in common also the strong shape of the shoulders, large and well built. His mother had them too – and when Lómion was younger, he had been amazed that his mother's shoulders were larger than those of his father.

 _Perhaps I should ask for his name and be done with it._ How to ask, though?

The Elda glanced at him and raised an eyebrow.

Lómion blushed and looked away.

"I don't mind you staring, Lómion."

Lómion stubbornly looked ahead at the rolling waves. The sky was turning grey; the clouds had finally reached the shore.

"You have questions."

"I do", he sighed, "I have many."

The Elda looked at the sky, "It won't do to remain here. Come, let us find a sheltered place and then you can ask me all the questions you want."

"Where are we going?"

"Somewhere warmer! Come, we must hurry!"

Their destination was a small hunting lodge in the pine grove near the shore. The place was furnished with closets full of blankets, a hearth, some beds, and everything that is needed by travellers.

They arrived in time before the rain.

The Elda shook his head. "One month without rain and the only day we go to the sea, it pours!"

"Who owns this place?", Lómion was looking around with curiosity. It was a cosy place, well decorated and, judging by its interior, frequented often.

"My father", said the Elda, "Come, this way."

He led Lómion to another side of the lodge. It looked almost separated from the main room, for it seemed a small house. It had a kitchen, a bathroom, a bedroom and even a living room with a shelf full of books, another hearth – and a writing desk near the window.

They took out the supplies from their bags and started the fire.

"The original building had only one room," said the Elda, "it was just a shelter in case of emergency. But I liked the position, close to the sea and among the pines – they smell wonderfully during summer – so I built this comfortable home. It still functions as a lodge for travellers, though. Sometimes I am its keeper."

He offered him a cup of wine – where did that come from? – and they sat in the living room. A companionable silence settled between them, the fire crackling and the rain tapping on the windows and the roof.

Softly, the Elda started to sing. Lómion was taken back in time, in a city on the shore bathed in golden light unlike the Sun. Children were running in its streets, laughing, calling each other. The roar of the sea accompanied their voices. Abruptly the song ended.

"That was Alqualondë."

"Were you born there?"

The Elda shook his head. "No, I was born in Tirion. But I grew up between Tirion and Alqualondë. It is dear to me beyond measure."

"Why Alqualondë?"

"My mother is from there."

"Oh. I see."

The explained the strange hair, at least. Still, Lómion couldn't place together all the pieces. Curious.

"And your father?"

"He was from Tirion, of course!"

"Of course", he muttered. He frowned, studying the stranger once more. "You know my name. You said you know my mother. Yet, I don't know _your_ name. It's not a fair exchange."

The Elda smiled: "You already know much about me."

"But not the name."

"Very well. I am Findarato, son of Earwen and Arafinwe. Finrod if you prefer." He inclined his head, placing a hand on his heart as if he were greeting a lord. Nothing in his posture was formal tough; his gentle smile – if slightly teasing – was still in place as he looked at him.

In a past life, Lómion had taken pride in his impassive composure. He had mastered the art of repressing and concealing, offering only an unmoving mask to his interlocutor.

(Something in his eyes must have had betrayed him from time to time, for there had been _one_ person in all of Gondolin that could strip him of his concealment with one glance and leave him naked, torn between resentment and desire.

And over the years, his grip on his mask became more and more slippery, until it fell and shattered.)

He felt, in that moment, the muscles of his face engage in a senseless fight, spasm and contort. He struggled to hide his shock, as a wave of shivers, burning hot and impossibly cold, overtook his body. He was sweating and could only gasp, a strangled sound breaking the comfortable silence of before.

Findarato's benign gaze never wavered, though it quickly morphed into alarm.

"The wine! How stupid of me, I should not have given you wine so soon after your return. And on an empty stomach too!"

His worried voice did nothing to reassure Lómion, who was suddenly feeling very nauseous and light-headed. He closed his hands into fists and tried to calm his erratic heartbeat by taking large breaths, though he only gulped and his efforts ended in a coughing fit.

"Oh dear, let me get you some water! Stay there, please!"

 _Where else would I go?_ Strangely enough, that seemed to be his only coherent thought, laced with annoyance.

When Findarato returned with a cup of fresh water, Lómion had considerably calmed down, although his hands were now cold and shaking. The golden Elda sat on the couch beside him, as he carefully drank, grateful for not having to either speak or look at _Findarato_.

 _Stars above, what do I do now?_

"Better?" asked the Elda, when he finished.

Lómion nodded, but kept his head low.

"I am so sorry", sighed Findarato, "I did not mean to scare you like that. Nor did I want to poison you with that wine. I forget, sometimes, how it is. I could not stomach anything alcoholic for a couple of months, after I returned from the Halls. And you came out barely a month ago. I _should_ have remembered, though! Again, my apologies."

Lómion tried to roll his eyes – he dearly wished he could stop rambling – but the action only worsened his nausea. He held his head in his hands, slightly pulling his hair, a nervous gesture that did not bring him any relief, though the mild pain grounded him.

After a while he felt a warm hand settle between his shoulder blades. He was tempted to shrug it away, but the weight was comforting, light and steady. Findarato spoke again, his voice slow and calm.

"I found this place by chance, a long time ago. I say 'chance', though I doubt it was only that. My father knew of this small lodge, secluded, sheltered. He purchased it when he was already king, so… Well, this he told me only after I discovered this place. I was running away, I suppose, though at the time I did not know what from."

A pause.

"No, that is not right. I knew perfectly well from what. I did not have the strength nor the courage to admit it aloud or to myself. The sea, the coast have always been my home. But I could not – I could not return there. To the places of my childhood. My family thought I was ready. _I_ thought I was ready. Instead, I ran. I stumbled here, famished, cold and probably too drunk for a prince of the Noldor – I had enough presence of mind to steal a bottle, apparently. I passed out from exhaustion on the floor – back then, the lodge consisted only of that first room you saw, and there was no proper bed."

He hummed. If Lómion had raised his head, he would have seen the fair Elda grimace at the memory.

"My grandfather found me," he continued. "To this day, it still baffles me. How he took time to look for me. He had food, a change of clothes and made tea while I came to my senses. My mother had warned him, apparently, of my silly escape. 'Foolish boy', he told me when I was conscious enough, 'You did not take that rashness from my side of the family'. I felt mortified, scolded as if I were again a child. Here I was, in front of the one person I dreaded most to meet, and I was covered in dirt and, well, and vomit." He shuddered at the memory, and Lómion felt the movement on his back. Findarato's hand was still a light, comforting weight. Lómion almost leaned into the touch. He hoped Findarato wouldn't notice.

"That meeting was everything I feared it would be, and yet not. My grandfather and I, we did not solve all the issues we had – we are still working on that. But this place helped. Here I could think clearly for the first time, after I came back to life. I felt safe, even while confronting my own fears and doubts. I stayed here for a while, after my grandfather returned to his city. I was alone, but never lonely. It is a place for contemplation and rest, as well as for healing. Sometimes a fisherman passes by. Sometimes my father. Other times a lone wanderer in search for an answer stops here. I always make sure that a place by the hearth is ready for them."

Lómion shook his head and Findarato stopped talking, looking curiously at his relative. He seemed so frail and lonely, curled in himself as if in pain.

"What can I do for you, Lómion?" he asked gently.

Lómion pulled at his hair with more strength. "For – for me?"

Findarato hummed. The hand on Lómion's back travelled to his nape and settled over his hands, warm, reassuring. Lómion unconsciously eased his hold, as Findarato kneeled in front of him.

"Yes, for you."

"I – I don't know. I don't." he shuddered.

"Can you look at me, Lómion?"

"I…", his whole body was shaking as he began to cry. "You…", his eyes found those of Findarato. "Hold me?" he whispered.

"Of course", was Findarato's reply, as he settled again on the couch, cradling Lómion to his chest.

The tears subsided, after a while. Lómion felt exhausted and confused still, but the fear he had felt when Findarato had revealed himself had left space for his curiosity to appear again.

Gathering his courage, he asked "Why are you with me?"

He dreaded the answer, yet at the same time he craved it. He _needed_ to know, to make sense of what was happening to him and of the strange new world in which he walked again.

He was met with silence.

Lómion got out of the embrace and turned, his brow furrowed, and looked at Findarato, searching for an answer. He caught a glimpse of uncertainty or worry, before the Elda's expression became carefully blank. His frown deepened. A bitter taste left his mouth dry and his jaw seemed to weight too much for speaking.

 _Where is your eloquence now?_

"So, this is how it is." _And it is no surprise. Who would meet a traitor outside the Halls? Kinslayers my father called the Noldor. Is that word enough for me?_

Findarato widened his eyes at that. Lómion thought he looked almost vulnerable. Almost.

"No, Lómion, it is not" he said softly. He sighed, and suddenly he appeared much older and burdened.

An irrational desire to lash out, to strike and to wound seized Lómion. He wanted to grab the Elda by the shoulders and shake him, violently, until he spoke plainly and revealed all his secrets. He stood up in a rush, his hands balled in fists. He took maybe two steps, before he felt the blood rushing in his veins and his head started spinning. He took a deep breath, his back hunched, nails digging into his palms. "How – " he croaked once he calmed down, "How is it then? Why you? Why not – Why anyone at all?"

"You need someone to guide you once outside the Halls. I volunteered."

" _Volunteered?"_ spat Lómion, spinning on his heels to stare at the other Elda.

"Yes." Findarato spoke with finality, his voice now louder and firmer, though it never became harsh, "I am far more experienced than many in our family in this. I welcomed back every one of them, after all."

"Every one?"

Findarato nodded, though Lómion caught a flash of pain in his expression.

"Of those who came back, yes."

He must have seen something in Lómion's eyes, a glimpse of his loneliness and dismay, for his next words were softer: "Your mother is well, Lómion."

"Is she?" Lómion did not know how to feel. Relieved, maybe. Disappointed that she did not come to him first. Unsurprised.

Findarato studied his face for a moment, before getting up from the couch and heading for his belongings. From a pouch he retrieved a bundle of what Lómion recognised as letters. The Elda undid the knot of the ribbon holding them together and picked the first folded paper, passing it to Lómion. He almost dropped it in surprise when he saw the name of the sender.

"She wrote this for you. She asked me to give it to you before that of everyone else. She was in Tol Eressëa when the news of your imminent return reached her. The journey from the island to the Halls was longer than that of mine. I do not doubt that she is on her way, however. But whether you want to meet with her or not, that is your choice. There is no rush, Lómion. Take as much time as you need."

Lómion hummed as he considered the letter in his hands. The paper was smooth and thick under his fingers. It seemed well made and expensive. It reminded him of the paper his uncle Turukano favoured – he kept stacks of it in all of his drawers in his study in Gondolin.

Yet, Lómion felt also the pattern left by a pen pressed with too much force, engraving the words. He could picture the scene. His mother had never had the patience for good calligraphy or for keeping a letter clean. Smudges of ink would stain her fingers and the paper, while she hastily penned too many words for the small amount of time she dedicated to writing them. She was never careless with them, though. She had always said exactly what she had meant, no more, no less.

It was fascinating, how much a handwritten letter revealed about the sender.

He smiled. "She would have smothered me." he muttered.

Findarato laughed – and, oh, was that sound brilliant and clear like sunshine breaking through the clouds. For one second, Lómion was back in Gondolin, the silver bells of its white towers ringing during the first day of spring. He chased away the memory, before it turned sour. He never liked bells, anyway.

"She probably would have overwhelmed you, that is true!"

"I think… I think I would like to see her", he said carefully. He took a deep breath. "Yes, I would like that very much."

He looked at Findarato and the other letters in his hands. "And those?"

"Are also for you."

"From whom?"

"Well, let me see", he pretended to leaf through the small pile, "One from your uncle Turukano, one form Findekano. Another from Nolofinwe. Then my father Arafinwe," he paused, humming softly, "Eärendil, and the last one from Laurefindel."

Oh. _Oh._

"As I said, take as much time as you need, Lómion. You do not have to read them all at once, let alone to answer them."

 _Maybe I don't. But just knowing that these letters are here, for me, will haunt me. I won't rest until I know what they say. Yet, I am afraid. Terribly so. The Maiar of Mandos were right. This might the most difficult path I will face. What should I do? And how do I do it?_

A gentle touch oh his elbow made him aware of Findarato in front of him, a serious yet kind expression on his face.

"It will be difficult, I will not deny this. But you have time and you are not alone. No one can carry this burden for you, yet you can find strength and encouragement along the way. Think about these people here, who wrote to you. They too are on their way towards healing. They too made some terrible mistakes. We all did. We are not infallible. Neither are we here to judge."

Lómion averted his eyes, unable to sustain the weight of the clear gaze of the other Elda. He felt again that _golden_ presence that had startled him the first time he had encountered Findarato and had made him want to follow and believe in him.

"How can you say that?" he whispered, "My deeds are far worse than theirs, I…"

"Perhaps they are. And you paid for them, and were released."

"Yet, the Valar are not infallible."

"No, they are not. But the choice of releasing a soul from Mandos is not of the Valar alone. Trust in that, if anything."

Lómion stared at Findarato until realisation dawned on him. The Elda smiled and gestured at the letter still in Lómion's hands.

"How about you start by this one and see what your mother has to say to you? Then, we can figure out the next step together."

Lómion nodded. _Together._

Suddenly, the path in front of him did not seem as daunting as before.


End file.
